“And exceedingly practiced,” she added, then requested, “Please reexamine the thoracic and abdominal cavities to determine if The Ripper deposited the copper earring there as well.”
A careful search was unproductive and only revealed that Annie Yates’s tuberculosis had spread far beyond her lungs, with massive involvement of the liver, spleen, and pericardium, which was obvious to the others as well. “Death was truly at the doorstep of this poor Unfortunate.”
On that note I completed the autopsy, having discovered no further clues or abnormal findings. Leaving my rubber gloves on, I retrieved the stack of the Unfortunate’s garments from a nearby table and led the way out. At the door to Anderson’s laboratory I encountered Benson, whom I instructed to immediately remove Annie Yates’s remains to the morgue, where they would be secure from intruders.
On entering the laboratory, we were surprised to find the three main suspects who were discussing the missing surgical specimen which had now been located.
“I covered for you yesterday,” Rudd was saying to Anderson, “by telling the family that the specimen required further study and review by experts to determine if a cancer was present.”
“That was most kind of you,” Anderson said gratefully.
“Do not allow it to happen again,” Rudd warned in a gruff voice.
“Extra precautions have been put into place to ensure it doesn’t,” said Willoughby, and turned to us, with a sour expression on his face. “You will have to wait, for we are in the midst of a most important study.”
“So are we,” Joanna responded, “as the soon arrival of Scotland Yard will indicate. I am afraid that Jack the Ripper has struck again.”
The three physicians gave appropriate reactions to the dreadful news. Rudd growled in displeasure, while Anderson and Willoughby shook their heads soulfully. Their suitable expressions were not unexpected, even if guilty, for each of the three was a talented actor who could conceal his true feelings.
“This madness has to be brought to an end,” Willoughby demanded.
I was struck by the director’s appearance, for he was wearing a white laboratory coat which seemed far too large for his frame. But then I realized the coat belonged to him, for it had his name embroidered above a chest pocket. Willoughby had obviously lost weight and this was becoming more and more noticeable. He was known to be suffering with severe peptic ulcer disease and had recently been hospitalized because of it.
“Let us hope it was not Pretty Penny,” Anderson broke the silence on a hopeful note.
“It was not,” Joanna assured. “The victim was another Unfortunate named Annie Yates.”
There was no detectable reaction from the three.
“Who was brutally mutilated,” my wife went on. “Her face was defleshed to such an extent she was unrecognizable.”
“How then was she identified?” asked Anderson.
“There was an eyewitness,” Joanna reported.
Almost in unison the three physicians raised their eyebrows, but it was Rudd who spoke. “Was she able to give an accurate description?”
“Only a partial one, but Scotland Yard believes it could be helpful.” Joanna glanced over to me with a thin smile, which I returned, for Thaddeus Rudd had just made a revealing mistake. My wife had not mentioned the gender of the eyewitness, but Rudd correctly called her she. How could he have known that without being present? Of course it was common knowledge that prostitutes often walked the streets in pairs for safety, but still …
“A partial description is better than none at all,” Willoughby commented. “Although such descriptions rarely hold up at official inquiries.”
“There are other clues in this regard,” Joanna lied easily. “And we expect to learn more when we examine the victim’s garments.”
“May we participate in the latter?” Willoughby requested.
“Your participation would be welcome, for I suspect you have considerable experience in the examination of clothing from murder victims.”
“I do, indeed,” said Willoughby, obviously pleased with the acknowledgment. “Allow us a moment to complete our study on Dr. Rudd’s surgical specimen.”
“Of course.”
As the two pathologists returned to their Zeiss microscope, Joanna sorted through Annie Yates’s garments, paying particular attention to the victim’s shoes. Using a damp cloth, Joanna dusted off the dirt and dried blood from the boots, which unexpectedly had silver buckles on their tops. With care she placed the feminine boots on a workbench and covered them with other garments.
“I say no cancer,” Willoughby announced, rising up from the microscope.
“I agree,” Anderson concurred. “The findings are consistent with a walled-off abscess that shows intense inflammation.”
“Excellent,” said Rudd, obviously pleased that the lesion was benign. “The family will be delighted with the report.”
“Let us then proceed to the victim’s garments,” Willoughby directed, and walked over to us, with Anderson and Rudd at his side. “Should we not wait for Scotland Yard?”
“There is no need, for I have been authorized to conduct the search by Inspector Lestrade,” said Joanna. “I am in favor of the following plan, which I believe will work to everyone’s satisfaction. On holding up the garment for inspection, I will comment on my findings before passing it on to you and Dr. Anderson for your assessment. No notes or recordings are to be made unless instructed to do so by Scotland Yard.”
I kept my expression even, although I was amazed at Joanna’s decision to include Willoughby and Anderson in the examination of Annie Yates’s garments, for my wife’s ability to detect and decipher even the smallest clue was a hundredfold superior to that of the two pathologists combined. But I had learned long ago that there was a purpose to even the oddest of Joanna’s plans.
“Let us begin with her gloves,” she was saying as she held up a pair to the light. “They are old and ragged, but intact, which is unfortunate, for they would have prevented the victim from digging her fingernails into her attacker’s face and arms. This would have left some of the attacker’s skin and blood under her nails, which would show up as defensive wounds on The Ripper.”
Joanna passed the gloves to Willoughby and Anderson, who gave them a cursory look before nodding their agreement with her assessment.
“Next, we come to the scarf, heavy coat, sweater, and petticoat that are soaked through and through with dried blood,” she continued on, carefully examining each garment. “The amount of blood loss is consistent with both carotid arteries being severed, which no doubt resulted in exsanguination.”
The pathologists again nodded at Joanna’s description, but did not reach out for the items she offered to them.
Annie Yates’s dress was likewise drenched with old blood, but Joanna still bothered to examine it at length, top to bottom. She abruptly stopped at the hem as she palpated a small object that was sewn securely within and hidden from sight. “A blade, please,” she requested, and was handed a scalpel which she used to remove the stitching from the hem. Deep inside was a male wedding band. With her magnifying glass, Joanna read the inscription, “‘Love, AY.’”
“No doubt from her marriage to the estate carriage driver,” my father recalled.
“Which ended so tragically,” I added.
Anderson asked quizzically, “How did you come by this information?”
“The eyewitness informed us,” I replied.
“Did the witness say when this supposed marriage ended?” Anderson queried, raising the possibility that the ring was stolen.
“Some years ago,” I answered.
“Yet she still holds on to it so dearly,” Anderson wondered. “Is it not strange she continues to do so?”
“Sometimes it is difficult to let go.” A look of melancholy came and went from Joanna’s face as she no doubt thought back to her former husband who died young of cholera. Shaking her head at the memory, she exhibited the prostitute’s stockin
gs for the group to examine. She sniffed at them briefly and said, “They have an aroma which I believe will be familiar to you.”
Willoughby whiffed at the stockings, holding them at arm’s length before commenting, “They carry the smell of formaldehyde.”
Anderson nodded on detecting the same aroma. “That is how The Ripper preserves the organs he carries away.”
“Absolute madness,” Rudd blurted out. “This terror has to be put to a stop.”
“I can assure you Scotland Yard is doing all in their power to apprehend this barbarian,” Joanna said. “You might be interested to know they are simultaneously working day and night to find the missing Pretty Penny, for they believe the two are connected.”
Anderson’s jaw dropped. “Then they must think her dead.”
“Or being held captive,” Joanna suggested.
“To what end?” Anderson asked anxiously.
“To kill her when it best suits him,” she replied.
“A murderous maniac who remains on the loose and does as he pleases,” Rudd growled. “He is making Scotland Yard look like a bunch of idiots.”
“Much as he did twenty-eight years ago,” Joanna reminded. “He was very clever then, as he is now. But eventually he will make a mistake.”
“I don’t think that gives the public any comfort,” Willoughby noted. “That is particularly so when the gruesome details appear daily in the newspapers. It makes all involved seem so helpless.”
“Sadly so,” said Joanna, and reached for the Unfortunate’s boots, which she grasped by their heels. “These shoes are of great interest, for they are far too good and costly to be found on the feet of a prostitute. They are constructed from fine leather which has held up well, and their silver buckles speak of high quality.”
“Where would a common prostitute obtain such shoes?” Willoughby asked the obvious question.
“Perhaps they were a gift,” Anderson advanced.
Willoughby waved away the idea. “An Unfortunate who plies her trade for a mere shilling or two would never be given such an expensive gift.”
Joanna and I exchanged quick glances, thinking that of course the distinguished pathologist would be aware of the price a prostitute charged for her services. He was a known gentleman drifter.
“Perhaps they are fake,” Willoughby said at length. “They may only be cheaply made replicas.”
“A worthwhile thought,” Joanna lauded, and attempted to examine the insides of the tall boots with her magnifying glass. “I cannot obtain a clear view and unfortunately I have left my reading glasses at home. Perhaps you can see the inside label better than I.” She handed one boot to Willoughby and the other to Anderson before prompting, “I believe the manufacturer’s name begins with a T.”
The two pathologists carefully examined the inner sides and soles of the boots, while I was left wondering why Joanna was lying about her vision. She had excellent sight and never wore glasses for reading.
Rudd yawned rudely without covering his mouth, obviously bored by the discussion of the Unfortunate’s boots. It was then that I noticed one of his incisors was missing. How clever Joanna was! She had no doubt observed this dental finding during her earlier encounter with Thaddeus Rudd, and it was for this reason she wondered whether Sally Hawkins had seen Jack the Ripper’s lips and teeth. Unfortunately, she had not, for had she it would have revealed a telltale sign.
“Travistock,” Willoughby and Anderson announced the brand name on the innersoles simultaneously.
“Ah, yes,” Joanna noted. “They make the finest boots.”
“So they are not fakes,” my father said.
“They are most likely genuine, which is also evidenced by the high quality of their leather,” my wife remarked. “This will all be mentioned to Scotland Yard, who can perhaps trace the origin of the boots, which might prove helpful.”
“How could that possibly help?” Willoughby asked.
“I am not certain,” Joanna said. “But these boots are out of place for an Unfortunate’s attire and, when an item is out of place, it hangs like a loose thread and must be tied off, for that is how most crimes are solved.”
“Please keep us informed of any developments, particularly those which relate to Pretty Penny,” Willoughby requested.
“Of course,” she assured, and gathered up all of Annie Yates’s belongings before bidding the gathered group good day.
Once we were in the corridor and well away from Anderson’s laboratory, I asked in a quiet voice, “Why is the origin of the boots so important?”
“Oh, it is not the origin of the boots which is so significant, but what is now on their surface.”
“Which is?”
“The fingerprints of two main suspects.”
CHAPTER 14
The Omen
It was well into the evening before Joanna and I rested on the comfortable sofa in front of a cheery fire which nicely warmed our parlor against the outside chill. My father had retired early, but only after applying heat and aspirin cream to his painful arthritic knee in hopes the joint would improve and allow him to travel to Brighton in the morning. For it was there that his beloved Northumberland Fusiliers would be holding their reunion, an event he so looked forward to, despite the sad memories it carried from the Second Afghan War. But a train trip, no matter how short, would surely cause his knee to stiffen and only worsen his discomfort. I found myself wondering if I should accompany him on his journey.
“The answer is no,” said Joanna. “For he will not wish to appear old and infirm in front of his comrades-in-arms.”
I could not help but stare at my wife in astonishment. “How in the world did you come by that? And please do not tell me it was simple observation, for there was nothing to observe.”
“But there was,” she replied. “You continued to glance over to your father’s packed suitcase by the door, then up at the rack which holds your hat and topcoat. The heavy tweed coat was of particular interest, for it is the one you favor while traveling. Thus, it was obvious you were dwelling on your father’s journey and whether you should be by his side.”
“I must learn how to perform that magic,” said I, as the crackling fire drew my attention. “Nevertheless, you were spot-on and I may have no choice other than to accompany him.”
“He will not permit it,” Joanna stated. “For in the end, the final decision will be made by him, not you.”
I nodded at my wife’s assessment. “Perhaps his treatment will bring about improvement in short order.”
“That is wishful thinking, if past experience is any indication.”
“Let us then hope for a miraculous recovery.”
Joanna chuckled softly to herself. “It is unfortunate that my son Johnny is not here to offer Watson some new and revolutionary treatment.”
We shared a warm smile as the memory of the remarkable conversation between my father and Johnny came to mind. It occurred last year during the lad’s spring holiday from Eton, at a time my father’s knee was again flaring up and resisting all therapy.
* * *
The ever-inquisitive Johnny had asked, “Why do you limp so, Dr. Watson?”
“I am afraid I have arthritis in my knee,” he had replied.
“What is the cause of that, may I inquire?”
“The cartilage degenerates and becomes uneven.”
“Only in one knee?”
“Only in one.”
“Why not add a lubricant to the affected knee?”
“It already has excessive lubricant called joint fluid, but it does not seem to help.”
“Perhaps it is of inferior quality.”
“Perhaps.”
“Then why not take fluid from the good knee, which seems to function well, and inject it into the painful one?”
My father had grinned at the suggestion. “Do you truly believe it would be beneficial?”
“It seems to be protecting your good knee.”
* * *
; I looked over to my wife, saying, “Do you know my father actually proposed Johnny’s treatment to an orthopedic surgeon?”
“What was the surgeon’s response?”
“He shrugged, calling it nonsense.”
“Did Watson pursue it further?”
“Indeed he did. My father brought the idea to the attention of a pediatrician at the Hospital for Sick Children who cares for the young with arthritis.”
“And the result?”
“He promised to look into it.”
“Good show! Was my son so informed?”
“He will be, if and when such a study is undertaken.”
“Johnny will be pleased to learn of it, for to him it is an experiment that should give a definitive answer. It is the type of inquiry he enjoys the most.”
“Like his mother.”
“And his grandfather before him.”
“So much so,” I noted. “My father says that young Johnny is an exact replica of Sherlock Holmes.”
“But far more thoughtful in that he never forgets my birthday,” Joanna said, and nudged me playfully with her elbow. “Unlike some men I know.”
I cringed briefly for effect. “I almost forgot that important day.”
“Almost?”
“Almost.” I reached into my vest pocket for a small velvet jewelry box. “Fortunately, I was passing by a shop on Regency Street a few days ago and saw this little item in the window.”
Joanna quickly opened the case to reveal a cameo broach which had a white figurehead against a sky-blue background. It was framed in a delicate gold lace. “It is so lovely,” she whispered, softly kissing my cheek. “Thank you, my dearest.”
“You are welcome, dear heart.”
“And now my birthday is in fact complete.”
“I suspect it would be even more complete if young Johnny was here with us.”
“Indeed so, but I take some comfort in knowing he is safely tucked away in Eton and far away from the dreadful crimes now pervading London.”
At that moment, as Joanna nestled her head upon my shoulder, a log in the fireplace split in two and sent up a great shower of sparks. In retrospect, I wondered if that noisy interruption was an omen of how unsafe Johnny’s future truly was.
The Abduction of Pretty Penny Page 15